


immunity, long overdue; contagion, i exhale you

by hellstrider



Series: Iron & Wine [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abuse, Allusions to abuse, Angst, Billy is the one doing the rescuing, Blood and Gore, Captive!Steve, Dark, Fae!Billy Hargrove, Gentle Sex, Gore, Granddaddy Dullahan, Healing, Hunter!Tommy, Hurt/Comfort, Irish Billy Hargrove, Lots of it, M/M, Magic, Not from Billy trust me, Rescue, Selkie!Steve Harrington, Steve!whump, The Dullahan - Freeform, Torture, Violence, headless horseman - Freeform, irish gaelic, lots of lore, the wild hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21764032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: it only takes one look.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Iron & Wine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568548
Comments: 20
Kudos: 212





	immunity, long overdue; contagion, i exhale you

**Author's Note:**

> so my beloved muse lauren bid me to write this au,,,,,  
> dark fae!billy hargrove,  
> selkie!steve as a captive of tommy,  
> and i went ALL IN
> 
> lauren i love u SO MUCH WIFEY
> 
> tumblr: billyhargrovens
> 
> title from fear inoculum by tool
> 
> u will need google translate for a few sentences of billy's, they're in irish, love u

The woodland is _quiet._

That _dead-keepin’,_

Buried face-down,

_Achin’,_

_Mournin’_ kinda shit,

 _That_ kinda quiet,

_Save for -_

The faintest, burring, _echoing_ hum;

A _prayer,_

A _hymnal,_

Wordless,

But no less _holy,_

And it’s _quiet,_

Save for the way his boots crush the leaves beneath ‘em to _dust,_

Save for the way the roots _groan_ , the way they surge upwards to try and reach him through the _achin_ ’, dead-keepin’ earth,

And he follows the lure of the prayer, the wordless, keening _hymn,_

Follows the _hooks_ in his spine,

The path of the ritual he’s so _finely_ laid,

The loophole he’s so _cleverly_ found,

_And,_

He’d had to find this _loophole,_

Because Billy Hargrove hasn’t laid brutal hands gone gentle on what’s _his_ in _two weeks,_

And what’s his won’t let him _take him away,_

Because what’s _his,_

Is dying so slow beneath _unworthy,_

_Foul,_

Little fuckin’ _rat_ hands,

 _Hunter_ hands,

Hunter hands that _stole_ the skin that meant _freedom_ for what _belonged to Billy Hargrove,_

And they’re covered up so _nice,_ these _hunters;_

Covered up _druid-tight,_

And not even Billy’s all-seeing _Granddaddy_ could find ‘em,

So Billy found a _loophole,_

And,

_Here she is,_

The blessed,

 _Beautiful_ little fly in the _ointment,_

And she’s knelt at the riverside - the black, _black_ river, with its opaline rapids and pitch-dark depths,

As she scrubs the bloodied clothes of the one Billy needs to _find,_

The one he’s going to _hunt_ ,

The one who holds the _sacred seal skin_ of the thing that belongs under Billy’s hands, the _sacred skin_ of one sea-born _Steven Bishop Harrington,_

The one who _stole_ the sacred skin of one sea-born Steve Harrington when Steve Harrington was sixteen and in love with the _wrong thing,_ in love with a _hunter,_ and that hunter had taken his sea-born _skin,_ and Billy had found Steve Harrington at twenty-one, _broken_ and _so_ beautiful, held _captive_ by the _hunter,_

The one Billy will turn _inside-out,_

Will bury _face-down_ in _stone,_

So deep and brutal not even the _Hellhounds_ would pick the corpse clean for _scraps,_

And Billy taps out a cigarette as he comes to a halt at the Washerwoman’s side, taps out a cigarette and puts it between his _achin',_ itchin' teeth, and she’s _all_ wrapped up in an old, _bloodied_ linen gown, reeks of _gore_ and guts, reeks of _rot_ and decay, and her wrinkled, soiled, vein-laced hands scrub at the clothes of the one Billy’s going to turn inside-out,

And when Billy reaches out, reaches out with a ringed hand to gently cup the top of her linen-wrapped head, the Washerwoman all but _purrs_ , a sound like a death rattle, and her mummy-wrapped face tips upwards as she bends into his hand like she’s receiving communion,

And she _is,_

And Billy watches as the clothes she scrubs over the board wash clean of blood, as they reveal the _name_ of the one he’s going to _hunt,_

The one who’s held Steve Harrington _captive_ since he was _sixteen_ , and -

_It had been a fine summer day, when William Henry Hargrove had met one Steven Bishop Harrington, met him in the deep Hawkins woods, and Steve Harrington had been drunk and bruised;_

_Achin’ somethin’_ fierce,

_All nestled up in the roots of an ancient oak,_

_Bottle of jack between his jean-clad thighs,_

_And Billy had knelt down in front’a him,_

_Reached out to touch the bruise molting that fine,_ fierce _face,_

 _And Steve had slurred, “_ fuck off _,”_

 _And his voice matched his honey-gold eyes, red-rimmed, so_ furious,

_And,_

_“Who did this to you, Bambi?” and Billy had let the wilds come through in his voice,_

_Because he’d never seen anything so fine and so_ beautiful, _not in his stupid two-hundred-years-too-long life,_

_Nothin’ that shone like this little sea-born thing did,_

_And Billy could_ feel _it,_

 _Could feel the longing, the aching, the yearning for the tide, but this little sea-born thing was land-locked, land-locked and bruised up, and when Billy had looked at his hands, they were –_ burnt, _burnt and shakin’,_

_And the thing with the Sidhe –_

_The_ thing is –

 _“Only takes one look,” his Granddaddy told him, white eyes long lost across the endless fields; “only takes one moment, one taste of a heartbeat. It’s all it took for that_ bastard _to_ take my daughter _from me.”_

 _And his Granddaddy had looked at Billy then, smelled the guilt on him, and he’d said, “you are the only gift to_ ever _come out of such pain, little wolf,” and,_

 _All it had taken was_ one _look,_

_One look at the sea-born, land-locked, burnt, bruised Steve Harrington,_

_And Billy had let the wilds come through in his voice when he asked, “who did this to you,” and those cherry-pink lips had slid apart, and diamonds had flooded those honey-gold eyes, and Billy felt the wolf open its maw inside’a him, the wolf that was all_ bone, _the wolf that had eyes burnin’ with blue fire,_

_And,_

_All it had taken was a moment,_

And that’s all Billy’s gotten with the sea-born, land-locked beauty that he’d rip the veil open for, because it’s all Steve Harrington would give him; soft, _secret_ moments, hidden in the back of a red BMW, tucked away in the Hawkins woods, fleeting moments of sticky kisses that made Billy’s wildling heart _sing_ , made him _ache_ , made the wolf _writhe,_

Fleeting moments of;

_“Let me take you away, Bambi, let me –“_

_“You_ can’t –“

 _“I_ can _–“_

 _“They’ll_ hurt you _, tiger, I won’t_ let them _hurt you,_ never _you – “_

_“They can hurt me all they want –“_

_“No. They_ can’t.”

And Billy’s sea-born, _land-locked_ beauty – he’s _so fuckin’ fierce_ , so fuckin’ full’a _fire_ , the kinda white-tipped, blue-fanged fire, the kinda fire that made the sea so fuckin’ _deadly,_ the deadliest thing in the _world_ , and it was all wrapped up inside’a the sea-born, _stolen_ , land-locked beauty that belonged under _Billy’s_ brutal hands,

And it had taken _one look_ ,

One _heartbeat,_

And it’s been three months,

Three months of _stolen_ , sacred moments,

Of –

_“Never loved anythin’ like this, not in two hundred fuckin’ years –“_

_“You love me –“_

_“Ain’t got much left, but whatever is belongs to you, Bambi –“_

Of,

 _“That’s it, tiger, fuck,_ no one’s _touched me like you, do, don’t stop, please, don’t –“_

 _“Never, baby, gonna keep you, gonna find a_ way _–“_

 _“Just keep me_ now _, just –“_

_“Always,”_

Of,

“ _How long, Stevie? How long has he –“_

_“Five years –“_

_“_ Fuck _–“_

_“Don’t, Billy, just, hold onto me, just –“_

_“I’m gonna_ kill him _, I’m gonna –“_

_“Kiss me, tiger, c’mon – “_

And,

“ _They keep the heads of the fae they kill –“_

_“Bring ‘em some real bad luck, Bambi, that will – “_

_“Good –“_

_“They wouldn’t be able to_ touch me _, Stevie –“_

 _“Yeah. Yeah they_ would _, tiger –“_

And,

_“I’d give it to you –“_

_“Stevie –“_

_“I want to. I want you to have it.”_

And,

The Washerwoman sinks the clothes into the river, the black, _dark,_ opal-tipped river, and Billy’s chest floods with a _Knowing,_ the kinda shit that comes when the last of the blood slips outta the clothes clutched in her veiny, skeletal little hands,

And the name _thunders_ through Billy’s skull, surges down his _ribs,_ his _spine_ , coils up _tight_ under his savage, _half-dead_ heart, and he croons, “ _maith thú,”_ as the Banshee burrs and butts into his palm, and the clothes start to _disintegrate_ as the Washerwoman screeches out a _victory_ , screams out for the dead, and Billy tips his head back, exhales smoke and _ash,_ and,

It'd _worked,_

The _Ritual,_

The Loophole he’d so _cleverly_ found, the one that got him _right_ around the druid’s lock and key,

The Loophole that guides him through the _weepin_ ’ Hawkins woods,

Towards the _old,_

Ratty,

 _Rotten_ steel mill off’a Pine Street,

And Billy can feel the power of the druid keepin’ them all locked up _tight_ , but now that he has a _name_ , the power can’t _shield_ the one it _belongs to_ – and names have _such_ power, have power over _everyone_ , just like the sea-born beauty’s skin holds power over _him_ , and,

And Billy’s already got one Steven Bishop Harrington’s name burnt into his half-dead heart,

And now he’s got the name of the one holdin’ him captive between _unworthy_ hands,

The one that’s been _bruisin’_ him, _burnin’_ him, _hurtin’_ him,

And as Billy nears the huge, sealed double-doors of the rotten steel mill,

A _stench –_

_A stench of –_

A stench,

_Hits –_

Hits _one Billy Hargrove,_

Hits him _right_ in the _gut,_ keen as a _bullet_ , and he’s been shot enough to _know t_ hat feelin’, and it’s a _stench of -_

Of,

_Iron,_

Of,

_Skin,_

Of,

Sea-born, _land-locked_ , beautiful, _sacred –_

_Burning,_

_Skin,_

And,

He knows the _smell_ of that skin,

The smell of,

_Ocean-spice,_

Lavender,

_Earth,_

The smell of –

_He can’t stop,_

_Can’t stop inhaling the sea-born, land-locked beauty beneath him,_

_The land-locked beauty with the nut-brown hair and honey-gold eyes,_

_And Steve moans his name so sweet as Billy sinks into him,_

_As he noses up his pulse,_

_As he drinks in the smell of his heated skin like it’s the finest fuckin’ whiskey in the world,_

_As he presses into the divine body beneath him,_ gentle, _so_ gentle, _and Steve’s eyes are glimmering as he slides his arms around Billy’s neck, as he pleads for a kiss with greedy, demanding lips, as he digs possessive heels into Billy’s thighs,_

 _As he says, “harder, tiger, wanna feel you for a_ week _, wanna feel you whenever I move,” and,_

_Billy wants to be gentle,_

_But Steve wants to_ burn,

_So Billy burns him the sweetest way, the only way he ever could, and those hands were so burnt when he first found the sea-born, land-locked beauty in the Hawkins woods, but they don’t bare a single scar, ‘cause Steve’s got bones that’re made of the tide and magic that sings like it, and he heals even as Billy sucks bruises down his throat, as he drinks in the scent of his skin, ocean-spice, lavender, earth, as he burns him with how he loves him,_

And,

Steve burns _now,_

But not in any way he should _ever_ burn,

And Billy can _smell_ it,

 _Smells it_ outside the rotten steel mill,

And –

_“One day,” his Granddaddy had told him, “you will learn to call the Hunt. You will become part of us, little wolf,”_

_And Billy had breathed out smoke, looked out over the endless, grey fields of his Granddaddy’s kingdom, the kingdom with the churning sky and the air that always smelled like cedar, like some kinda_ holy _,_

_“Ain’t got shit to fight for,” Billy had told him, bitterness between his teeth, “the Hunt’s yours, old man. Not mine,”_

But,

There’s _something –_

Something _happening,_

Happening to one _William Henry Hargrove,_

As the stench of Steve’s _burnt flesh_ permeates the cold night,

As Billy crushes the cigarette he can’t taste beneath his boot,

As Billy shrugs outta his leather jacket and tosses it aside, runs a ringed finger through his pristine, golden curls, and,

It’s a _damn good thing_ he’d worn red, tonight.

And when Billy kicks through the doors of the ‘mill, someone demands, “the _fuck_ ,” and Billy doesn’t even pause to get a good look at who he’s puttin’ a human fist through, doesn’t pause to take in how many _fuckers_ there are, ‘cause it _doesn’t matter,_ not now, as the wolf that’s all bones with eyes that burn with blue flames snaps its maw and surges up inside’a Billy’s chest,

And he puts his ringed fist through some _fuckin’ hunter’s_ face,

 _Revels_ in the way the bone of their nose breaks,

The way it _spurts_ blood,

And it’s a _damn_ good thing he’d worn red tonight,

‘Cause then Billy’s grabbin’ the hunter’s throat, all heated skin, _and,_

Then he’s _digging_ blunt, _human_ fingernails into that heated skin until blood _gushes_ over his palms,

And someone _screams_ , a sound that comes so muffled and _hazy_ through the thunder of Billy’s half-dead heartbeat, and there’s a sound of a gun cockin’, sharp as the crack of the bone he’d broken under his ringed knuckles,

And Billy _whips_ a hand through the air, the hand coated, drippin’ in human gore, and some kinda ancient shit surges up from his bones, makes the bullets in the gun _melt_ , and he can feel the oppressive, weighted, horribly corrupt magic of the fuckin’ druid that’s kept these _backwood-lookin’_ motherfuckers locked up _tight,_

But it’s _no good now,_

‘Cause Billy’s got a _name_ between his feral teeth and Steve’s burning flesh under his nose,

Has the ancient, immovable wilds locked _right_ around his half-dead heart,

A wolf with fangs of ice in his chest,

So he _melts_ those fuckin’ bullets with a wave of a gore-coated hand, grabs the barrel of the fuckin’ gun and slams it into some _faceless goddamn hunter,_ and the mill is _full_ of ‘em; they gotta be a dozen or more strong, but Billy’s got the _stench_ of Steve’s sacred, _burning_ skin under his nose _and –_

He’s gonna turn the one that held his _sea-born_ , land-locked, _golden-eyed_ beauty _hostage_ inside fuckin’ out,

And the ravaging, half-dead _wolf_ is startin’ to replace anythin’ _human_ left inside’a one _Billy Hargrove,_

Who grew up with a foot in the Otherworld and the other in the prison of his own pop’s makin’,

The pops that stole his mama away from his Granddaddy,

Just like this motherfuckin’ _cunt_ stole Steve Harrington from the sea,

Stole his _skin,_

Kept him _hostage,_

The motherfucker that’s _burnin’_ what belongs under Billy’s hands, the hands that learned how to be _gentle_ to hold onto that sea-born beauty,

And Billy’s teeth _ache,_

As his soul’s slowly peelin’ _apart,_

And –

_One day, you will learn to call the Hunt,_

_You will become one of us,_

And,

It’s a _damn fucking good fucking thing_ Billy wore _red,_ tonight,

‘Cause it’s _drippin’_ down his heavin’, _splittin’_ chest,

Drippin’ from his blunt fingertips, the fingertips that itch to _dig_ into flesh until they don’t know how to fuckin’ stop,

And it’s runnin’ in rivers down his stomach,

Soakin’ his boots,

Soakin’ his jeans,

And Billy’s vision is _going,_

Going,

_Half-dead,_

And then he’s surrounded by the _full_ dead,

And the floor of the mill is riddled with gore, and Billy’s got _blood_ on his teeth, and he breathes in _deep,_ breathes in the stench of burning, _sacred_ flesh, the flesh that belongs under his bloodied hands, breathes in the rich tang of broken human bodies, and some kinda groan rolls outta the _core_ of him, comes _right_ outta the maw of the _ice-fanged wolf;_

And he can _feel_ the druid’s _corrupt,_ rotten-earth, fuckin’ _peat-bog-body_ magic, and it’s _growin’,_ ‘cause they think they’re gonna kill him, think they’re gonna kill _William Henry Hargrove_ in front of the sea-born beauty he’s come for,

The sea-born beauty he’s baptized himself in _blood_ for,

The sea-born beauty Billy’s half-dead heart’s goin’ from red to _black_ for,

And,

_One day,_

_You will learn to call the Hunt,_

And,

There’s ice at the back of Billy’s throat as he moves through the old, whining steel mill,

The steel mill reekin’ with that _corrupt,_ peat-bog-body, _rottin’_ , backwoods, fuckin’ _Baba Yaga level fuckin’ magic,_

The magic they think is gonna take him _out_ ,

But see,

_The thing is,_

The thing _is –_

Billy’s mama got stolen away from his Granddaddy by a _human,_

The human that raised Billy by puttin’ his fists to his ribs, raised Billy to always keep _fear_ on his tongue, the human that kicked the _shit_ outta Billy like he wasn’t a goddamn _weapon,_

The rotten, tar-lunged human that became Billy’s _first fuckin’ kill,_ way back when humans were still figurin’ out how to ruin the world, and Billy had ripped Neil Hargrove apart like he did the humans that stood between him and what belonged under his _brutal_ hands,

Had ripped him _apart_ ,

Let him float down the river in _pieces,_

Heard silent _praise_ unfurl down his spine,

And Billy’s the son of the daughter that some _fuckin’ rat-faced little mortal_ stole away from,

_From –_

Now,

_See,_

The thing is –

Billy’s _Granddaddy._

He’s _full dead,_

Full dead, just like the hunters Billy leaves swimmin’ in pieces in the Cocytus of his own fuckin’ makin’ behind him,

And _see,_

Billy’s never really _felt_ the full weight of the little crown on his head, the one his Granddaddy put on him after Billy had _ripped_ his pops apart, the _motherfucker_ that stole Billy’s mama away _just like_ the motherfucker that stole the _sea-born beauty_ that _belongs,_

Belongs to _Billy fucking Hargrove,_

And he’s never really felt the weight of,

_One day,_

_You will learn to call the Hunt,_

Hasn’t really felt the burn of ice in his half-dead blood,

Hasn’t really felt the _bite_ of the invisible crown on his brow,

Not _until –_

A _wrenching,_

_Horrible,_

Ringing,

 _Scream_ rips through the mill,

Followed by, “ _fuck you,_ fuck you, just – _end it_ , asshole, end it, _please_ –“

Now,

Billy was born with a half-dead heart, still more red than rot,

_But,_

It’s goin’ entirely _black_ as he moves through the reekin’ _mire_ of the druid’s _pathetic,_ peat-bog-body, fuckin’ _backwoods_ Baba yaga-level magic,

And,

The steel bridge connectin’ where Billy’s standin’ to the hovel where some _motherfuckin’ rat-faced_ little _bitch-ass_ hunter is keepin’ what’s _his_ from him is slowly washing with frost as the full brunt of Billy’s inheritance comes surging right, _right_ up under his skin,

And he can –

He can hear the Otherworld,

Hears the whispers,

The soft, spikin’ laughter of things that can’t even pretend to be human,

Can hear the wind that sweeps across the kingdom he never thought he was worthy of settin’ foot in,

And,

_Ain’t got shit to fight for,_

_The Hunt is yours, old man,_

_Not mine,_

And,

_I'd give it to you,_

_I want to,_

And the tears that drip, unbidden, from his furious eyes, _freeze_ before they hit the ground, and they shatter _so fine_ when they do, shatter like Billy’s weepin’ _glass_ , and, fuck, maybe he _is,_

‘Cause his vision’s goin’ _full-dead,_

And as he goes forwards across that bridge, the one connectin’ his battleground to the hovel where the one who’s name _bleeds_ between Billy’s teeth keeps what’s his _from him,_ burns it,

 _All of Hell_ goes with him,

And the chain-riddled, metal-workin’ workshop surroundin’ the bridge starts to frost over as the blood on Billy’s skin turns from crimson to black, as it starts to flake off’a him like the most _brutal_ kinda snow,

And,

The stench of burning, _sacred_ flesh is so _thick_ in the chilling air,

 _So fuckin’ thick_ ,

Makes Billy’s throat _clench_ and his lungs _surge_ up into his shoulders, makes his bones _tremble_ in the clutch of his muscle, and the full brunt of his inheritance is just, _just_ within his grasp as he lifts a hand and the steel door ahead of him _blasts_ inwards, coated in tar-black _ice_ , and,

The room is _vast_ , not a hovel at all, but another huge, open warehouse with huge windows linin’ the high ceilin’, and Billy steps out onto a steel balcony overlookin’ the sweeping cement floor, the cement floor covered in debris, in scraps of _iron_ \- the floor that becomes a stage for the _worst_ scene he’s ever set eyes on,

The scene _that’s;_

Starring the little _rat-faced,_ hick-ass, _rot-mouthed_ fuckin’ hunter that’s got his hands all over the skin that keeps what’s Billy’s away from him, keeps his sea-born beauty hostage,

And he’s surrounded by at least twenty other fuckin’ _backwoods-lookin’_ , rat-faced, _rot-mouthed_ hunters, all armed with _guns,_ guns that Billy’s gonna make _burn_ so they lose their _hands first_ ,

And _there’s_ his sea-born beauty, slumped over in a little chair in the middle of the vast, sprawling floor,

And he’s droolin’ blood, his little sea-born beauty, and the sleek, shiny, silvery skin in the hunter’s grasp is absolutely riddled with _burns,_ burns from a hot, iron poker set in a burnin’ barrel,

And _Billy’s -_

Billy’s vision _is,_

Now,

_See,_

His _Granddaddy,_

His Granddaddy was _full-dead,_

And Billy’s seen his Granddaddy’s head come right, _right_ off’a his shoulders,

Has seen him ride with the Wild, _Wild_ Hunt,

Has seen the _full power_ of the inheritance _burnin’_ through his own steel-strapped bones,

And Billy’s vision is _full-dead_ as he starts to sidle down the metal steps, as the little rat-faced hunter bearin’ the name _Thomas Franklin Hall_ tilts his head and shouts, “you’re one _persistent_ little _fuck_ , y’know that, Hargrove?” and,

Normally, there’d be _power_ in that name,

‘Cause names _have_ power, _especially_ when they’re wielded against things like _William Henry Hargrove,_

And especially when they’re _wielded_ by one William Henry Hargrove,

Because the name _Thomas Franklin Hall_ is how he’d found where this fuckin’ _hick-ass_ hunter is _keepin’_ what _belongs_ to Billy Hargrove _locked up_ ,

Keepin’ him _burnin’,_

_Hurtin’,_

And Billy can _smell_ Steve, smells his burnin’ skin, the sacred skin keepin’ him _away_ from the sea, the skin that Billy would _worship_ if he could, and then _the hunter is_ – he’s puttin’ his little greasy, _unworthy_ , rotten, _foul fuckin’ hands_ on Steve, slides a hand into his hair and jerks his head back,

And he’s _so fuckin’ beautiful,_ this sea-born, land-locked thing, the thing Billy’s gonna chew through iron to get to, and he’s so _fierce_ , Steve Harrington is, split lips curling into a snarl, honey-gold eyes still _so_ fuckin’ bright, and he doesn’t flinch when a tear rolls over the wicked gash in his cheek, doesn’t flinch when the hand in his hair tightens, _and,_

“Hey, baby,” Billy says, and _his voice_ – his voice is all _wrong_ , so _right_ , as it _thrums_ with the ice at the back of his tongue, as it morphs around the _blessing_ of his inheritance, and Steve’s so fuckin’ fierce, and Billy –

Billy’s _gonna –_

_He’s gonna –_

_“Billy!”_

And Steve’s voice is _wrecked_ , gravel-thick, as it _shoots_ out across the warehouse, echoes with enough force it threatens to shake the windows, but it comes, comes a _little too late,_ and,

Now,

Billy’s been _shot,_

He’s been _stabbed,_

He’s been shoved off’a cliffs that would’a killed lesser things,

Things _without_ silver, steel-strapped bones,

Things _fully livin’,_

And Billy’s _half-dead,_ is goin’ _full-dead,_

But it still hurts like a _motherfucker_ when the iron slices through his back, when it spears outta his chest, and it still _burns_ like it’s _supposed to_ , like Billy’s a fully alive thing, like he’s got the gold of the _Sunlands_ in his veins, _but,_

The thing is,

Billy’s _Granddaddy,_

See,

His Granddaddy’s from the _Abyssal Wilds_ ,

And his Granddaddy’s head doesn’t _always_ live on his shoulders,

And –

_One day,_

_You will learn to call the Hunt,_

_Ain’t got nothin’ to fight for,_

But,

Billy meets those honey-gold eyes, the honey-gold eyes that’ve gone _wide_ , wide and _horrified,_ and Steve’s _shouting,_ cryin’ out, beggin’, _ragged_ and broken, “Tommy, _please_ , leave him _alone_ , don’t _do this,_ just _take me_ , fuck, you _have me_ , just – _leave him_ , please – “

And then there’s the goddamn _druid,_ the _Baba Yaga-level_ , copper-haired, _coward-faced_ fuckin’ _bitch_ that shoved a _huge iron poker_ through Billy’s _back,_

And she circles him, watches him with huge eyes, and the iron tries to leak through his blood, hurts like a motherfucker; Billy _staggers_ a little, chokes on a half-formed _laugh_ , and then Thomas _fuckin_ ’ Hall drops that sacred skin on the goddamn debris-strewn _floor,_ steps over it, and -

 _“Billy!”_ And he’s never heard Steve sound like this, like his saltwater tongue is gonna spit a _hurricane_ , and his voice is _rippin’_ outta him as he _pleads,_ “tiger, _don’t,_ baby, _look at me_ , please, _look at me_ –“

And,

_See,_

Billy knew, _knows_ this was, _is_ gonna _hurt,_

‘Cause,

_One day,_

_You will learn to call the Hunt,_

So when Thomas Hall puts his fist through Billy’s face, when Billy’s knees shake with the iron pumpin’ through his Abyssal blood, he _goes_ where the pain steers him as Steve roars his name; he lets himself hit the floor, just like that sacred skin had, lets himself _taste_ the blood and the metal, lets himself taste the oncoming storm as the ice at the back of his tongue _starts,_ starts to –

_Change,_

And when Thomas Hall kicks his ribs with a steel-toed boot, Billy doubles over, spits out blood goin’ black, and when Thomas Hall twists the iron poker shot through his body, Billy roars with a voice that’s as doubled over as he is, _but then;_

But then it’s tripled,

And then it’s _quadrupled,_

And Billy’s roaring with a _dozen_ voices, a dozen aching layers of throttling, _ancient_ pain as he lets Thomas Hall beat him closer, _closer_ to the edge of that _Abyss_ ,

The Abyss that will one day be _Billy’s_ kingdom,

And then Thomas Hall sinks an iron knife right, _right_ through his throat,

And he can’t hear Steve’s roar, this time, but he _feels_ it, feels it _rip_ through him like the knife, like the iron poker in his chest, and –

Then Thomas Hall is shoving Billy away, and Billy slumps down over the iron-shard floor,

And blood _gushes_ past his lips,

Blood that _runs,_

Runs _black,_

And Billy hears the wicked, _whipping_ howl of the Veil as he slips between reality and the Abyss, the one his Granddaddy _rules_ over,

‘Cause Billy Hargrove’s Granddaddy is the goddamn _Dullahan,_

And his inheritance starts to _rip_ through him as the ice at the back of his throat _changes,_ as –

His pupils _break,_

Bleed out _just_ past his iris,

_As,_

He wraps a yellow-clawed hand around the iron poker stickin’ outta his chest,

_As,_

The howling starts to _slip_ through the Veil,

_As,_

The fire in the barrel, the fire that was burnin’ that _sacred skin_ goes from orange to blue,

_And,_

Billy tilts his head, cracks his neck, the neck with the fuckin _’ knife_ through it, and he grits shark-sharp teeth as he starts to drag the iron poker forwards, tuggin’ it outta his body the most _painful_ way he knows how,

And it’s a violin bow pressed to the violent, _savage_ strings of his soul,

The violin bow that drags out the most _aching,_ commanding song,

A song that _shivers_ through the Veil,

And the howling _turns to,_

Wild, _raucous_ whooping,

_Turns to,_

Jeers from mouths that can’t pretend to shape human sounds,

_Turns to,_

Ice sprawling out across the floor from the epicenter of Billy’s body,

_Turns to,_

The walls of the warehouse _shuddering_ with the power that Billy calls to, the power that is the full brunt of his Abyssal inheritance, ‘cause Billy Hargrove’s pops _stole_ the _daughter of the Dullahan,_ and Billy is the _evidence_ of that theft, is the heir of the fucking Dullahan, and his Granddaddy had told him, told him;

_One day,_

_You will learn to call the Hunt,_

And Billy Hargrove hadn’t had _anythin’_ to fight for, not until he found the gold-eyed, sea-born, land-locked, burnt up, fierce little Selkie that was Steve Harrington in the Hawkins woods,

And he hadn’t had _shit_ to call the Hunt for,

_Not until –_

“Billy,” and it comes like a _hymn,_ and;

_I’d give it to you,_

_I want to,_

“Bambi,” and Billy _speaks_ with so many voices, warped, inhuman, and he staggers up to his feet, tosses the violin bow of the iron poker aside, and Thomas Hall and his stupid, Baba Yaga, _mall-psychic_ fuckin’ _hag_ druid are watchin’ him with the kinda horror he knows his shifted shape should inspire; “keep those eyes on _me,”_

And,

“Put him _down!”_ the druid barks, and the guns cock, and Billy _groans_ , groans and bends back, exhales a cloud of icy breath like it’s smoke, and the bullets all start to go to liquid as the guns go _red-hot_ , as the only flesh that should’a _ever_ burnt here starts to sizzle, and a few hunters cry out, cursin’ as they shove their guns to the floor, _and,_

Icy, wolf-fanged blue fire licks outta Billy’s chest, seals the wound there up _tight_ , and then he grips the hilt of the knife in his throat as the iron-clad floor starts to tremble, as the whooping howls, the jeers, the raucous, _destructive_ laughter start to rattle the windows in their high, _rusty_ panes,

And Billy meets Thomas Hall’s gaze as he drags the blade _right_ outta his throat,

As he _laves_ a _spiked,_ tapered, _inhuman_ tongue _right_ up the blood-soaked iron,

As he chucks it lazily aside,

As the wound in his fuckin’ neck sizzles _shut,_

And Billy drags his full-dead eyes away from the hunter that he’s gonna turn inside-out, looks to the fierce little sea-born beauty bound to the chair in the middle of the false ocean forged outta cement and iron, and,

_"Cuirimis tús leis an fiach,”_

And those honey-gold eyes stay right, _right_ on him as the windows shatter, as carriages forged outta stretched human flesh and bone come bursting through the steel walls, as _massive,_ sleek black felines leap down from the stairwell, their venomous hisses like the finest song, _and,_

There are _horses,_ horses built outta rottin’ bones, decayin’ flesh, horses with the skulls of vultures and eyes like jade, and steerin’ the huge, steel-wheeled, flesh-forged carriages are headless men, headless things that weep ichor outta their concave chests,

And there are dead things on horses with _fangs,_

And there are moaning figures with too-tight grey skin pulled over their sharp bones, figures with _no_ eyes, with droopin’, _soul-starved_ mouths , figures that come _rippin’_ up outta the cement, clawin’ their groanin’ way into the world for the hand that beckoned ‘em outta the Afterlife,

And the floor _shakes_ as the walls _heave_ and the hunters start to _scream,_

As the black cats circle the Selkie on the chair in the middle of the false ocean,

As those honey-gold eyes stay right, _right_ on Billy,

As Billy starts to stride across the false, iron-strewn ocean between ‘em,

And one of the massive, gleaming Cat Síth has Thomas Hall pinned where he stands,

Another has their jaws around the druid’s thigh,

And Billy moves first to the sea-born beauty he came for,

Slides a _gentle,_ yellow-clawed hand under that bloodied chin, and Steve’s eyes flutter shut as he turns his face into Billy’s palm, as he chokes out a soft, _aching_ gasp and tries to bend into his touch, and Billy thumbs over his split lips, knows he’s gonna spit the most violent, _brutal_ bile when he’s finally gotten his sea-born beauty the _fuck_ outta here,

But _for now,_

For now,

“Keep those eyes _shut_ now, baby,” Billy says, all soft, all gentle, even as he’s shark-eyed, wolf-fanged, and Steve does, keeps his eyes shut, and then Billy’s gentling him asleep, soft waves of a coaxin’ kinda power, and Steve slumps against the ropes holdin’ him to the chair,

And Billy looks then to the sacred skin on the floor, the skin that’s all burnt, and there’s a ragged T cut into a thatch of silver-grey, and,

Billy bends slow and _careful_ ,

Picks up the skin with all the reverence it should’a always been held with,

Traces the edge of the wound he knows is mirrored on the sea-born beauty bound to the chair,

Then takes a deep, steadying breath, calms himself even as the sounds of the hunters being ripped apart echoes through the warehouse, as the Wild Hunt gathers up bodies in the carriages with whooping, inhuman jeers,

And he gently lays the skin over the back of one of the Cat Síth at his side,

Turns his black-bleedin’ gaze to the hunter whose name he found through a clever little loophole,

And Billy jerks his head at the Cat Síth that has their jaws around the druid, lets it drag her off as she _begs,_ and one of the vulture-skulled horses leaps down to feast as the Cat Síth roars, and then Billy’s lookin’ at the rat-faced, _rot-mouthed_ hunter that _did this_ ,

That _stole_ his sea-born beauty’s skin,

The _sacred skin_ he’s been _burnin’,_

And Billy moves with the full brunt of his inheritance _right_ on his heels,

With the full force of a _rage_ that’s so _bright_ it can only be _divine,_

And he eyes the hunter,

Says,

_“Glúine,”_

And one of the Cat Síth digs her vicious, crescent-moon fangs into the fucker’s knee, and he goes _down_ with a _throttling_ cry, one Billy will remember for the rest of his _impossible_ , half-dead life,

And,

He plants a _blood-soaked,_ frost-coated boot on Thomas Hall’s heavin’ chest, bends over and meets his frantic, human, stupid, tear-leakin’ eyes,

And they’re always fuckin’ _cowards_ at the end,

All’a em,

_Always,_

And Billy tilts his head, puts the tip of his tapered, _Sidhe_ tongue to his molars,

And a growl comes out in the shape of a _laugh,_ a laugh that _oozes_ outta his throat, a laugh that’s _all_ wolf,

And,

"Stone's feelin' _real_ hungry, Hall _,”_ Billy croons, and as he speaks, the cement beneath the hunter starts to ripple like the false ocean it was, starts to ripple and swallow the hunter like quicksand, and the hunter grabs at Billy’s ankle, eyes wide, face whiter than the dead, and he _begs_ , begs and _pleads,_ words that don’t mean _shit_ to Billy’s pointed ears,

But the stone’s starvin’ somethin’ _fierce_ ,

So Billy _feeds_ it,

Shoves the hunter beneath the rippling, false water,

Withdraws his boot,

And no fuckin’ evidence of the hunter that dared to burn what belonged to one William Henry Hargrove - had, since the day he’d found the sea-born, land-locked beauty in the Hawkins woods – remains, not a single scrap, a single bone, _nothin’,_

He’s _buried_ in the starvin’ stone,

Made _silent,_

And the Wild Hunt is starting to dissipate as they fulfill the command that came singin’ outta Billy’s Abyssal soul on a bow of iron,

 _All_ for the sea-born beauty in the little chair in the middle of the false ocean,

And Billy cuts his sea-born beauty loose,

Catches him as gentle and _careful_ as he can,

Hauls Steve up with one arm under his knees, the other around his back,

And the Cat Síth bearin’ Steve’s _sacred_ , sea-born skin glues herself to Billy’s thigh as he calls to the Veil,

As he calls for the shadows to _swell_ up,

To cocoon them from the savage mortal world,

And the mortal world may be _unbearably savage_ ,

But so is _one Billy Hargrove_ ,

And he _feels it_ , feels the _full force_ of it as he shoves through the Veil,

As he emerges into the kingdom that would one day be his own,

And the sky overhead is a churning hurricane of grey, lightning-streaked clouds,

And the Abyssal sea is _right,_

Right _there,_

The sea in _Billy’s kingdom,_

All shimmering opal and deepest indigo, brightest cobalt,

_And,_

There’s a little hut right at the shore,

One with a grass-thatched roof,

A circular thing nestled up against the rocky hill sloping up to the vast cliffside overlooking the Abyssal sea,

The sea in the kingdom Billy never thought would ever be his,

‘Cause he never felt the full weight of the crown his Granddaddy put on his head,

And his –

His _Granddaddy is,_

He’s leaning in the doorway of the little oceanside hut,

All windswept grey hair,

Black linen shirt,

Boots to his knees,

And his face is severe, sharp; he’s got piercing opaline eyes, a square jaw, the jaw Billy wears too, and his brow is furrowed tight, tight with worry, and his head’s on his shoulders, but Billy’s seen it come right off like it was never properly attached in the first place,

And the Dullahan watches as Billy nears, all coated in ash, in _blood_ , and it was a good thing Billy wore crimson, tonight, ‘cause –

“So much death, little wolf,” the Dullahan intones, deep voice like the tide, and he’s gazin’ at Steve now, out cold in Billy’s arms, “all for this.”

And Billy sucks in a cheek but his Granddaddy knows him _well,_ moves aside to let him slip into the little ocean-side hut, the hut he knew Billy would come to, ‘cause it was his mama’s hidin’ place before it was his, and there’s a bed piled with Griffon furs and feathers against one wall, a huge fireplace nestled right beside it, and there are herbs hangin’ from the ceiling and there’s a METALLICA poster on the stone wall, vinyls on the rickety shelves,

A clash of the two worlds Billy Hargrove grew up in,

And his Granddaddy leans against the kitchen counter strewn with ceramics as Billy lays Steve on his bed, as the Cat Síth makes a soft chuffing sound and dips her head when Billy reaches for the burnt, brutalized skin across her back,

“ _Mo bhuíochas,_ Alanis,” Billy murmurs, and the giant, feline-shaped fae rubs against Billy’s thigh before slinkin’ outta the little ocean-side hut, and the door shuts softly behind her,

And Billy’s movin’ to fill a bowl with water at the sink, and _his hands_ – his hands shake somethin’ _fierce,_ so fuckin’ _fierce,_ and then there’s a pair of steady, familiar hands takin’ the bowl from him, and,

The scent of tobacco, of dust, of myrrh and cedar washes over Billy as his Granddaddy takes the bowl from him and says, quietly, “tend to the Selkie, child,” and,

He’s not a _child,_

Doesn’t know if he ever really _was,_

But his Granddaddy’s older than _sin_ , than the _sea,_ so Billy steps back, turns his gaze to the sea-born beauty in the bed Billy’d always wanted to see him in, the one in the hut at the shore, the one that used to be his mama’s before it was his,

And then steady hands are takin’ his own, and Billy thinks he should _protest_ , as his Granddaddy cleans his hands of blood like he’s a _kid,_ but one glance from under those severe brows shuts Billy right up, and the Dullahan wipes off the blood with a soft cloth, then shakes his head and cups Billy’s chin, like he’s the _kid_ again, the kid who tore his own pops apart at the river and started _cryin’_ for it,

“This will bring the Tribunal on our heads,” the Dullahan says, and Billy’s nose _furls,_ ‘cause,

“I don’t give a _shit_ about the damn _Tribunal,”_ he snarls, shovin’ at his Granddaddy’s hands, and the Dullahan sets the bowl of water on the raw oak table, the one Billy cut from the Abyssal Wild woodlands himself; “they _started it,_ they – the hunter _had him_ – had his _skin,”_

“Aye,” the Dullahan rasps, and he looks to the skin, the skin draped at the sea-born beauty’s feet, “and you ripped the Hunt into the mortal world _without my permission,_ ”

“You _told me,”_ Billy says, voice pitched into a growl, “you told me I’d _learn_ to call ‘em,”

“When it was _time,”_ his Granddaddy says, and _he never_ – he’s never _yelled_ at Billy, not ever, not _once,_ but his voice still cuts like a _whip_ through the air, and Billy clenches his jaw, grinds his blunt, mortal teeth, runs a human hand through his golden curls, the golden curls gone a little rusty-red, _and then –_

“You said you had nothing to fight for, little wolf,” and Billy meets those opaline eyes, and the Dullahan watches him close, watches him careful; “but you called the Hunt without my permission for a _captive,_ sea-born thing. Now he’s _free._ What if that _freedom_ does not include you?”

“Then it _doesn’t!”_ Billy all but shouts, _and he’s_ – he’s comin’ _apart_ , comin’ apart _so_ finely, ‘cause Steve’s on the bed he’s _always_ wanted to see him in, the one he could _never_ coax him into, ‘cause some fuckin’ _rot-mouthed_ hunter had stolen his _skin,_ kept him bound up _tight,_ kept him _burnin’,_

And _how many times_ had Billy smoothed his hands over bruised ribs?

 _How many times_ had he kissed broken skin?

 _How many times_ had he tasted the sea-born beauty’s blood on his savage mouth?

 _How many times_ had he licked away his tears?

And –

_I’d give it to you,_

_I want to,_

But,

The sea-born, land-locked beauty in Billy’s bed _doesn’t_ belong to him,

Because _thinkin’_ that, _that was –_

It was _too,_

_Too like –_

Like the _hunter,_

But _Billy?_

 _Billy_ belonged –

_I want to,_

“Oh, child,” his Granddaddy sighs, and,

_One moment,_

_One look,_

“If he _doesn’t,”_ and Billy swallows hard, as his Granddaddy watches him, watches him close, with eyes that have seen this kinda love burn through too many souls, the kinda love that burnt his only daughter to _ash_ , ‘cause she loved the _wrong thing,_ picked the _wrong_ moment; “if he doesn’t, _then he_ – he _doesn’t_. I _just_ – he’ll be _free,”_

And his voice breaks on the last word, breaks even and clean, and then his Granddaddy’s cuppin’ his face, and Billy feels like the little kid at the riverside, confused and _hurtin’_ and so _savage_ it could only mean he was _inhuman,_

But,

His heart cries out like a _human_ thing _now,_

As his Granddaddy wipes his tears away and says,

“You love as _fiercely_ as your mother had, dear one. Do not let it sweep you away,”

And,

“It already _has,”_ Billy murmurs, and his Granddaddy’s brow furrows, the lines beside his mouth deepening, _but –_

It’s nothin’ but the truth,

And if Steve Harrington decides that the inheritance that follows Billy Hargrove isn’t worth it,

Then he’ll be free,

Take his skin,

Go back to the sea,

Find the mother Billy knows is out there, wondering what happened to her son,

Find the family he _deserves,_

So maybe it would be – would be for the _best,_

If he decided that freedom meant leavin’ this half-dead heart,

‘Cause if Billy was just an _escape,_

Then he was _glad_ for it,

Glad he got even a _moment_ of the sea-born beauty in his bed,

A _moment_ of Steve Harrington,

With his honey-gold eyes and _fierce,_ lashin’ tongue,

Who laughed and made Billy feel _indestructible_ ,

Who moaned his name _so_ sweet, _so_ fine,

And,

Then Billy is left _alone_ with the sleepin’ sea-born beauty in his bed, and the sky outside is goin’ dark as Billy strips outta his blood-soaked crimson shirt, outta his boots, his jeans,

And he brings a basin of seawater into the cabin,

Stands at the side of the bed for – for, _fuck,_ he doesn’t know how long,

_Just,_

Starin’ down at the sacred skin laid out on the bed at Steve’s feet, and there’s a cigarette burnin’ down between his bruised-up knuckles,

And Billy digs his teeth into his bottom lip, curses with a hoarse, _raspin’_ voice, the kinda shit that _hurts_ comin’ outta his throat, and he takes a final drag of the cigarette before crushin’ it out on the oak table he cut outta the woods himself,

And Billy slides a careful hand over the edge of the skin, the Selkie’s path to freedom, 

And he gathers it up, heart trapped in his _goddamn mouth,_

 _Tries not to –_ to look at the _T_ carved into it,

And with reverent, brutal hands gone _so_ gentle, _all_ for this, Billy lowers the skin into the saltwater, puts a palm over the worst of the burns, and on the bed, the sea-born beauty _groans_ in his sleep, groans and _writhes,_ and,

“Shh, _a chroí_ ,” Billy says softly, and he keeps a hand over the skin in the water as he slides the other up to run his bruised knuckles over Steve’s bloodied cheekbone, the one with the gash slicing right up under his eye,

And the firelight warms the cabin as the rage inside’a Billy turns to drippin’ gold, as he slides his hands over the skin beneath the saltwater, the water from the sea in the kingdom that would one day be his, and Billy turns that gold to sheer, aching power, the kinda shit that only a half-dead thing could coax to life,

‘Cause what the world _doesn’t_ know,

Is that the best healers are the ones that walk too close to _death,_

And Billy Hargrove was born half-dead _already,_

Has tasted that _full_ kinda death before,

So he coaxes the fury and the _fear,_ coaxes the sheer, absolute _hatred,_ into liquid _gold,_

Lets it churn from his hands in waves of soothing heat,

Fire under water,

And he’s _thrummin’ with_ – with trapped _violence_ as the burns start to simmer away, as the mark in the shape of a _T_ starts to mend, and there’d been _so much death,_ but still Billy _aches_ , aches in the kinda way that makes him wanna get lost in the woods and carve through as many things that wanna carve through him as he can,

And _he’s never –_

Never been much of a _healer,_

Not until he had somethin’ to _fight_ for,

Not until he had somethin’ to _kill_ for,

Not until he had somethin’ to call on the _Hunt_ for,

And if freedom means Billy never sees Steve Harrington again,

Then _so be it,_

‘Cause Billy was born _half-dead,_ hasn’t felt shit like this in two-hundred years, and it’s that _once-in-a-lifetime_ kinda thing, and somethin’ like him was lucky to feel that at all, even for a _moment,_

And it would be for the _best_ , for the best if the sea-born beauty got _away,_ away from Billy Hargrove’s half-dead, _black-veined heart_ ,

But he’s not gonna let him go _bleedin’,_

So he coaxes his rage into somethin’ _better,_ somethin’ _golden_ ,

And,

Billy coaxes the bruises outta the skin under the water, soothes the burns,

And he soothes the sea-born beauty on the bed when Steve starts to pant soft and quick in his sleep, the sleep he’ll come outta when the healin’s done, when the sun rises over the sea, and Billy spends the dark of night like that, one hand sliding over Steve’s thundering heart, the other hovering protective and careful over the skin in the saltwater,

And he sings,

‘Cause that’s what his mama used to do,

So he sings,

And it’s the Star of County Down, ‘cause it, just, rolls off’a his tongue as he gazes at the sea-born, land-locked, burnt up thing in the bed he’d always tried to rescue him to,

And if this isn’t the bed that Steve Harrington wants to fall into, then _so be it,_

But until he makes that choice,

Because he has a _choice_ , now,

Billy’s gonna keep him _safe,_

And he sings, quiet and _soft,_ and,

Then it’s dawn,

And Billy lays the healed up, sacred skin on the bed beside Steve,

Brushes a kiss over his brow,

And the gash on his cheek is _gone,_

And his skin isn’t _bruised,_ anymore,

But Billy’s is,

And he slips outta the cabin as the sun rises over the Abyssal Sea, the only time they get to see it proper, here, in the land of half-dead and full-dead things,

And Billy washes off in the sea, washes his arms, his _hair,_ soaks his linen pants and watches the sunrise stood calf-deep in the opaline, cobalt, indigo water,

Tries to chew through his _fear,_

The violent _bile_ at the back of his throat,

The _anger,_

The _ice,_

_And then –_

“Hey, tiger."

And Billy turns as _real_ sunlight comes sidling towards him across the white sand,

And there’s no more blood on Steve’s face, and he’s _whole,_ whole 'cause of Billy's devoted hands, and his skin is draped over his shoulder and _his eyes are_ – they’re full’a _diamonds,_ and Billy can’t help the _achin_ ’ smile that flickers to life across his lips as he watches him, ‘cause Steve Harrington’s the most _beautiful_ thing he’s ever seen, _and,_

“Hey, Bambi,” and his voice is his own, even though it's raspin’, _smoke-sore,_ and Steve’s cherry-pink lips purse, tremble, a little, and he’s got his hands in his pockets as he closes the space between ‘em,

And,

“That was _some shit_ you pulled, Hargrove,” Steve says quietly, and he’s _fierce_ , strong, stronger than Billy _ever_ could be, his sea-born beauty is, _and_ , “I’m gonna see that knife going into your neck for the rest of my stupid life,”

“Only hurt a little,” Billy lies, and Steve bites his lip, huffs and swipes furiously at an eye, and his jaw ticks as he drags the skin from his shoulder, silvery and slippery and _sacred,_

“I could,” and Steve swallows hard, “ _feel you,_ your - the _way you_ –“

And Billy’s heart, his half-dead heart, starts to go sideways as Steve gives a rough sound that kinda tries to be a laugh but sounds more like a growl, and,

“D’you know how many times?” Steve demands then, “how many times I - I _wondered_ what it would _feel like?_ To have your _hands on_ – on _this?_ How many times that _saved_ my sorry ass, _imagining_ what it would _feel like?_ ” and,

_What if that freedom doesn’t include you?_

And Billy knows why his Granddaddy _asked,_

To make _sure,_

Make sure Billy wasn’t about to go _darkside,_

About to _keep_ the sea-born beauty he’d _killed_ for, called the _Hunt_ for, become a _part_ of the Hunt for, _against his will,_

_And,_

They might be the harbingers of _death,_

But death can decide to be _gentle,_

Can be _kind,_

Can _heal_ ,

And Billy’s eyes _burn_ as he watches the stubborn muscle tick in Steve’s jaw, and then Steve’s breathin’ in hard and _quick,_ is biting out a soft, “ _fuck,”_ and,

Then Steve’s catching one of Billy’s hands, is dragging it _to the_ \- the _sacred skin,_ and Billy’s got half of Steve’s name outta his mouth when those cherry-pink lips slide over his own, and Steve shoves the skin against Billy’s chest, shoves it at him with an edge of _desperation_ , 

And,

“ _Easy_ , Bambi, _easy_ –“

“ _Don’t,”_ Steve bites out, _fierce_ , fiery, and he’s _stronger_ than Billy could _ever_ be, ‘cause he’s _sea-born_ , no longer _land-locked_ , and Billy knows he must be _achin_ ’ somethin’ _terrible_ to dive into those waves, but what he does _instead_ is kiss Billy like he almost _lost him,_

And he never _would’a,_

‘Cause Billy’s the heir of the _goddamn Dullahan,_

But he _knows,_ knows Steve was _terrified,_ so terrified, and the hunters that _kept him_ were the kind that kept the _heads_ of the fae they _killed,_ and,

“He _knew,”_ Steve says, voice _all_ wrung-out, and Billy slides a hand over his jaw, tries to swallow the feral kick of savage anger that crests up in his chest; “he _knew_ about you, told me he had _people_ on you, _told me_ –“ and,

“He got whatever the _fuck_ he wanted when he – when he threatened _you,_ he knew about you the _entire time,_ he _loved_ that I had something to _lose_ ,” and,

“I’m _sorry,_ Billy, I’m _so fucking sorry,_ I’d _get it_ , if you – if you wanted to _stop,_ to –“

_And,_

Billy _snarls_ then, and the kiss he presses to Steve’s cherry-pink mouth is one that’s all teeth, all claiming, _biting_ fire, and Steve groans against his tongue as it laves up beneath his own, greedy and fierce,

“I put him into _stone,”_ Billy says, just this side of violent, and Steve shoves the skin against his chest until Billy splays a hand over the silken silver, and Steve _moans_ brokenly against his cheek, moans and slides his arms around Billy’s neck, _and,_ “I put him _underground_ , Bambi, no one’s _ever_ gonna _touch_ you, not ever again,”

And,

“Thought I was gonna watch you _die,”_ and Steve’s voice breaks, goes deep and sideways, and Billy starts to walk him across the sand, away from the sea, back to the little cabin beside her, and Steve must be _achin’_ for the water somethin’ _fierce_ but he goes where Billy guides him, and,

The full weight of this sudden, hard-won _freedom_ slams into Billy _all at once_ , as he walks Steve back into the cabin he’d always wanted to steal him away to, the one that used to be his mama’s, and Steve’s panting hard and _fast_ , tears fallin’ like rain over his cheeks, and they’ve got the – the sacred skin _between_ ‘em,

Until it’s _underneath_ ‘em,

And Billy cages Steve down to the bed, the bed he’d always wanted to sweep him into, keep him _safe_ in, and,

“Holy _fuck_ , Billy, I thought I was watching you _die,_ I thought I was – I thought _I_ was _gonna_ , I _thought,”_

And,

Billy slides a hand up the skin under Steve’s spine, and Steve lets out a keen, a full-body shudder rippin’ through him, and it doesn’t escape Billy, how privileged he is to be touchin’ this sacred skin _at all_ , the skin that could bind Steve up to the _wrong thing_ , the skin that _had_ ,

And tears start to clump in his lashes as Billy strokes over the skin beneath Steve and melts their mouths together, kiss like a promise, a holy, heavy-worshippin’ kinda promise, and,

He’s _never_ kissed Steve like they got all the time in the world, ‘cause Billy Hargrove found Steve Harrington when he was five years captive to a hunter, the hunter that burnt his skin, the hunter Billy had found with his name clutched bloody between his teeth,

And Billy’s never kissed Steve like they have _time_ , ‘cause they never _did_ , existed for three months on stolen moments and silent tears,

So he does it _now,_

‘Cause the full weight of freedom is _surgin’_ through him, and Steve’s panting out sobs against his tongue as Billy’s heart tries to punch out through his chest, as it tries to burrow itself in the divine thing underneath him,

The _sea-born,_

_Free-willed,_

_Fierce_ beauty beneath him, _and,_

He peels the bloodied clothes off’a Steve with careful hands, puts his mouth to where the bruises once were, the bruises he’d gentled outta him, sacred seal skin in the saltwater basin, half-dead palms clutchin’ healin’ between ‘em, ‘cause the best healers were the ones that toed too close to death,

And Billy hadn’t known that until he had somethin’ to call the _Hunt_ for,

Somethin’ to _become_ the Hunt for,

Somethin’ to _live_ in the _weight_ of his inheritance for,

And Steve looks up at Billy with glimmering eyes, _and he_ – he looks _so_ fuckin’ gorgeous, splayed out across his sacred skin, across the Griffon-furred bed that Billy had begged Steve to let him steal him away to, _and,_

How many times had he kissed that porcelain skin while it’d been black and blue?

How many times had he forced himself to memorize the taste of Steve’s blood?

How many times had he _prayed_ for a way to save the _one thing_ he learned how to _heal_ for?

How many times had Billy wondered if Steve would show up to meet him in the dark, dark woods at all,

How many times had Billy wondered if Steve was _dead,_ skin just, a circle of ash around him, _and,_

 _“Jesus,_ Stevie,” and _it comes_ – comes out _horrible,_ comes out _breathless_ , comes out on a _wrenching_ growl, and Steve’s lips tremble into a smile as Billy slides a hand up along the side of his face, and then Steve’s kissin’ over his saltwater palm and he’s all heated skin, skin Billy had spent the night soothin’ back to that creamy white,

And,

He’s cryin’ _proper_ , real proper, as he lets out a strangled whine and catches Steve’s soft, “ _Billy,”_ between his teeth, his _brutal_ teeth, the teeth that had held the hunter’s name, bloodied,

The teeth that will spend the rest of eternity chewin’ through any beast that came for the sea-born beauty underneath him,

_And,_

Billy is so _slow,_ so _careful,_ as he slides a slick finger into the heat of Steve’s body, ‘cause they have so, _so_ much _time,_ and Steve’s panting so _soft_ and so _sweet,_ is cryin’ as proper as Billy is, and Billy catches every tear he can on his tongue, kisses over Steve’s pink cheeks as he cups his nape and holds him like the sacred thing he is, and,

Steve _doesn’t_ belong to him, ‘cause thinkin’ that feels _too close_ to the hunter,

But then Steve breathes, “you’re gonna _keep_ it, Billy Hargrove, you’re gonna keep _me_ ,” and Billy _moans_ , moans against his throat and slides his free hand over the skin, the shimmering, silver skin beneath Steve, the skin that means _freedom_ , and Steve _whines,_ whines and _keens_ and lets out an impossible _, sobbing_ laugh as he presses his nose to Billy’s cheek, as he slides his trembling arms around his shoulders, _and,_

“It’s _yours,”_ Billy whispers, and he catches Steve’s hitching gasp when he sinks a second finger into him, “it’s _yours,_ baby,”

And,

“ _I’m_ yours,” Steve retorts, fierce, so _fierce_ , so strong, and – “are you _mine_ , tiger?”

_Which,_

“You’re no _idiot,_ Harrington,” Billy manages, all fuckin’ _sideways_ , and Steve’s eyes are bright and red-rimmed but his smile is _so_ soft when Billy says, “don’t _act_ like one,” and,

“ _Say it,_ baby, c’mon, _tell me_ , thought I was gonna watch you _die,_ thought I was gonna go right after you, would’ve, I _would’ve,”_

‘Cause,

“I _love you,_ tiger, love you so much, _say_ it,”

And,

Billy puts his mouth to Steve’s ear,

Lines up his _aching_ , weepin’ cock against his loose, wet entrance,

Sinks into him, sinks into Steve _so_ soft and _so_ sweet as he breathes, “ _love_ you somethin’ _impossible,_ Bambi,”

_And,_

Steve _groans_ Billy’s name like it’s _deliverance_ as his head falls back, pink lips slick and shiny, and Billy licks at a spot of blood Steve didn’t get right behind his ear,

And he’s tasted that blood _so many times,_

Has _memorized_ it,

And it’s both the most honeyed wine and the _worst_ thing he’s ever had on his tongue,

And love is such a _weak_ word,

But Steve pleads, “ _Billy,”_ and Billy _knows,_ knows he’s not said it _nearly_ enough as he should’ve, ‘cause every time he had, _before_ , Steve had always looked like he’d been _gouged out,_ gouged _hollow,_

And Billy digs gentle fingertips into the sacred skin underneath Steve, catches his soft, _aching_ moan against his tongue, and Steve’s arms hold onto him like he might vanish like the tide at midnight if he doesn’t grip him tight enough,

But there’s no fuckin’ way Billy will _ever_ leave his side again, not _ever_ ,

Not until he’s _commanded_ to,

And,

The weight of freedom settles like summer sunlight over Billy’s spine as he smears his mouth over Steve’s cheek, as he cradles his jaw in a calloused hand, as he fucks _so sweet_ into him, fucks into him with a kind of possessive _finality_ , and,

 _“I love you,_ ” and,

“Never wanna be _without_ you,” and,

“Would’a ripped the _world_ apart to _find_ you,” and,

It took him a month for the answer to the riddle of Steve’s imprisonment to smack him in the face,

Another to gather all the ingredients for the proper ritual, the ritual Billy laid _so well,_

Another to wait for the Ritual to take _hold,_

And the Washerwoman had given him the keys to Steve’s freedom,

And now _here he is,_

Whole,

_Alive,_

Sayin’ shit like,

“It’s _yours,_ Billy, _I’m_ yours, tell me you’ll _keep it,”_ and,

“Imagined what you’d _feel like_ , it’s _so much better,_ so much better than I _ever_ imagined, _fuck,_ baby, you feel _so good_ ,” and,

“Know you’ll keep me _safe_ , know you’d never _hurt me_ , say it, baby, _please,_ tiger,”

And,

Billy’s _helpless_ to it, helpless to the _command_ that falls off’a that _seasalt tongue,_ the tongue that curls _so_ gentle and _so_ divine under his own, and Billy _groans_ as Steve wraps his thighs around his waist, as he gives a hitching, _gravelly_ gasp, the kinda shit that lights Billy’s _skin_ on fire, makes it feel _so tight,_

And he’s helpless to Steve’s commands, always _has been_ , save for _one_ – save for, _don’t go looking, Billy, swear you won’t,_

And he’d disobeyed _that one_ ,

So he owes him,

_Owes him;_

“ ‘S long as you wanna be _kept_ , Bambi,” Billy breathes, even though they both know that the _moment_ Billy touched the sacred skin, it was gonna stay with him, and Billy’s not strong enough to fight it, isn’t strong like Steve Harrington, who existed in a prison for five years but was brave enough to fall into Billy’s arms, brave enough to say, _I’d give it to you,_

And he’s brave enough to say,

“ ‘S long as it’s by _you,”_ and,

Billy catches the words on his tongue, and they taste like honeyed wine, like the way Steve’s eyes look in sunlight, and Billy rolls into him, fucks him over the sacred skin, slides his hand over it, a _reverent_ touch, a silent _worship_ , and,

“I was always _free_ ,” Steve says against Billy’s ear, tear-soaked, sex-hoarse, just this side of wild; “when I was with _you,”_

And it’s all it takes to send Billy right over the edge, and he cums buried in Steve with a hitching, punching, brutal sob, shakes with the force of it, and then he’s kissing Steve within an inch of his fucking _life_ as he jerks him quick and _fast,_ sweeping his thumb over the glistening head of his cock,

And he cleans Steve with broad sweeps of his tongue, shit he never got to do _before_ , ‘cause they never had enough _time,_

But they _do_ , they have time _now,_

And Steve’s cryin’ _proper,_

And so is Billy,

As he slides up against the sea-born beauty underneath him as Steve catches his face between his trembling, tide-strong hands, and Billy ducks to kiss his sticky lips, kisses ‘em chaste, _soft_ , so _soft,_ and

He’s soft inside’a Steve,

But when he moves to pull out, Steve digs a heel into his thigh,

Fists a hand in his curls,

Puts their mouths right back together, until they’re swappin’ sobs,

Murmurs, broken, gentle, _free;_ “not done with you yet, tiger,” and,

He never _will be,_

**Author's Note:**

> songs:  
> fear inoculum - tool  
> without you (extended) - ursine vulpine  
> one last moment of you - ursine vulpine  
> time - hans zimmer
> 
> dullahan fancast - jeremy irons


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